


The Cat Dialogues

by FeatherDragon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, just a small piece of Cas & cat fluff post-Hunteri Heroici
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 09:00:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14101935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeatherDragon/pseuds/FeatherDragon
Summary: Maybe he's not up to hunting supernatural creatures just yet, but there is still one feline he needs to deal with. One-shot, post- Hunteri Heroici (Season 8, Episode 8).





	The Cat Dialogues

The mice wanted free rein of the tipi, the cat wanted the forest to himself.  
Craig Childs, The Animal Dialogues

The cat doesn't talk much.  
He knows he's called Bob. For of course, it's carved into that fancy little bronze tag tied to his collar, but he simply prefers to refer him as "the cat" in his head. He also knows that he could not speak human tongue anymore, but it does not mean that he doesn't talk.  
Every morning he comes to the nursing home and accompanies Fred for two or three hours. He likes mornings; most people are asleep at the time, and he and Fred can have the whole common room to themselves. They would sit together and watch the sunlight and Beethoven filled the window. He has learned to sneak out or turn invisible before Mrs. Tates comes in, or she would hold his hand and fill him with anecdotes about one certain ex-husband of her.  
But he can't hide from the cat.  
He has his favorite spot: that couch set in the north corner of the common room, the newest and most comfortable one actually. The cloth is dark orange, forming a nice gradation with his own long ginger fur. He likes to take the middle seat, stretch as long as he can, and dig his claws into the thick cloth while he's bored.  
Castiel soon discovered that the cat can see him.  
He was watching the old playing board games: sometimes SORRY!, sometimes Ghosts. When he bent down to pick up a dropped dice under the desk, he realized the cat was staring at him. It was not a casual gaze, but an intense stare, with his ears slightly bent backwards.  
"You can see me?" he asked. The cat laid his head on his paws, eyes half-closed again, seemingly bored.  
"I won't interrogate you anymore," he said and walked towards him. "Let's stop this war shall we?"  
The cat jumped off the couch and ran past him, quickly disappeared into the gaps between slippers, socks and gout-suffering ankles.  
Castiel immediately decided that he didn't like the cat.

Among all languages of felines, the one housecats use is least approachable for Castiel. Lions are straightforward; pumas prefer silence, only give out the simplest combination of words and sentences when necessary. Lynxes and servals are both fan of riddles. Only housecats, under the influence of humans, tend to speak nonsense and bury actual meanings deep in a conversation or throw them away. They also seem to master the skills of traveling through time and space like angels, as they always show up or disappear in unexpected places.  
When forced to share a room with an enemy without the choice of killing him, Castiel prefers to stay away.  
It's not as easy as he thinks. First, the cat works in a mysterious way. Second, Castiel can't bring himself to ignore his shenanigans.  
He leaves sands from his litter box all over the house, not to mention the countless claw marks and tiny holes he contributes to the couch on daily basis. Castiel doesn't think it's only for metabolism purpose, but after observation, he has to admit it's not for communication or recording either. Castiel has tried persuasion or threatening, but the cat either gives him a look and yawns mockingly, or simply ignores him. Sometimes he steps on Castiel's foot purposely while walking by.  
He doesn't know if the cat has any weakness. Taking his food away or turning the couch into hard and unpleasant material seems not to falter him. Perhaps he's bluffing, but Castiel wouldn't have known.  
The cat is lying on Mr. Martin's lap. The old man is reading a piece of newspaper while rubbing the cat's neck absentmindedly. The cat extends his forelegs, attempting to reach out for the carton box placed on the edge of the desk from beneath.  
"Don't," Castiel warns.  
The cat casts him a glance upside-down. Then suddenly he spins upward -- it's too late -- clings to the edge of the carton box, and falls to the ground with the box on top of him and a bunch of "YOU'RE THE BEST" stickers.  
Mr. Martin bursts out laughing. He wipes away the tears and picks the cat up. "God Bob, you're so funny."  
The cat runs his tongue through his teeth and wiggles out of the old man's hand. He looks down and paws the stickers of bright red and golden, as if examining his prey.  
Castiel doesn't understand how human beings manage to ignore the talons and absurd habits of such heartless beasts and allow them sleep on their pillows.  
And then he realizes: Perhaps this is the purpose -- he's not staying here to accompany Fred, to help him adjust to the world without his ability and personality, but to fix this destruction-and-sarcasm-loving cat.  
"One point for the cat and zero for Castiel." he says to himself.  
"Did you say something?" In front of him, Mr. Martin asks Nurse Wayne. The latter shrugs.

He decides to do some investigation. He doesn't want to break his cover as "Fred's friend", and there are four strays wandering about the home. All regulars are proud members of birth control project, fed by nurses and doctors from time to time. They have a makeshift shed in the backyard, and he has seen the cat walking past it with extra caution. The lack of certain organ prevents more bloodshed.  
The first one is a grey tabby; she's curled into a ball in the corner of the shed. When Castiel squats down in front of her she cracks an eyes open and glances at him, declaring no interest.  
The second one, a slightly smaller long-haired grey tabby keeps trying to sneak into his trench coat during investigation.  
The third one, a ginger, is sitting on the sugar maple in front of the home. "Do you know the cat inside? Bob?" The ginger tilts his head to one side. "Was he always a trouble?" The ginger wiggles his tail impatiently. He dislikes all indoor cats.  
The fourth one, a white tom with black ears and tail lets out a snake-like hiss and jump onto the fence.   
So no further clues, but he doesn't really need more evidence. Castiel decides to take the cat away. It seems to be the best option.

When he's back, the cat is on Fred's window sill, following Castiel with his gaze. He must have been watching Castiel talking to the strays. He strolls on the heels of Castiel, as if trying to trip him. He frowns and strides across him. They make their way to the common room in a awkward, tangled dance. "Bobbie!""Kitty!""Furball!" Callings surround him, but the cat gives no attention to any of them. Instead he jumps onto the small desk besides Mrs. Anderson and lies down on her magazine.  
A flash of wickedness hits him and Castiel flops into the cat's preserved seat.  
The cat breaks into a gallop. He jumps down, runs straight to the end of the alley, then turns around and runs back. He looks like a mini-sized cheetah.  
"Oh, ain't he energetic." Mrs. Anderson says affectionately.  
At last the cat slows down to a jog. He stops right in front of him, looking up with his sides heaving. He sits down slowly and tucks his paws and tail under his belly.  
"Go find other seats," Castiel says. "This one's taken."  
The cat ignores him. He blinks, and eventually falls asleep.

Castiel waits until midnight.  
The last one has left; the nurse has turned off the light and television. In the faint light from the street lamps the cat stretches and strolls out of his bed, yawning. He jumps onto the couch. Castiel's fist clenches in his pocket; he's ready to grasp him and fly to Alaska. The cat pads around in a circle, steps onto Castiel's lap and settles himself down.  
Castiel touches his ear in hesitation. The cat lies down with his back clings to Castiel's stomach. Once again he fails to capture the meaning of it, but it looks like a peace offering.  
"Oh, so you are surrendering now, are you?" he mutters, takes the cat's face in his hands, his thumbs run through the thin soft fur beneath his squinting eyes.  
The cat purrs.

END


End file.
